


Sacramentum

by justmariamay



Series: Chime [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Vessels, Blood, Blood Drinking, Demon Dean, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Hell, How Do I Tag, Murder, Obsession, Pre-Apocalypse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7313740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmariamay/pseuds/justmariamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's in the name? Apparently, too much for Dean to handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacramentum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Onomatophobia - fear of a name, or a certain name'. I took rather weird approach to it, but the idea was inspiring. In this AU Apocalypse hasn't happened yet, but Dean has already received MOC and became a demon. Messed timelines and all. But I felt good working on it. Hope you'll like it.

“Oh, he’s going to love you, Dean,” Abaddon trailed her hand down the wall of the cage where Lucifer himself was prisoned long-long ago. Their creator. Their prince. Their god.

Dean is more or less cynical about the prophesied reign of Devil on Earth where Abaddon is fanatic, but he agrees with her on one thing. Dean does make a great demon, but what’s important he feels good, so much better than he was a weak human. Who could’ve thought that some old dude that passed him this ‘omnipotent’ mark and bone blade was Cain. _The_ Cain. Dean killed the guy as he promised. Never met him in Hell afterwards, which is a bit confusing, but… whatever.

Dean knocks on the wall and can’t tell what is it made of. But it’s big, he can’t see if it has a roof. It has to, since it’s a cage, for an angel (or a former angel) no less.

“Is he that big?” he asks with a doubt.

Abaddon laughs. Okay, stupid question. Obviously, if this ‘cage’ looks rather like a citadel.

“If he’s that big, the one who put him here must be even bigger,” he muses. “Was that, ugh, God?” he still has troubles saying word ‘god’ and actually mean it.

“No, that was an archangel. You know which one, leader of angelic hosts, defender of divine glory,” she says few more titles in one spiteful tone. But yes, everybody knows that one, atheist or not.

“You met him too, didn’t you, Abaddon?” he asks curiously. Abaddon is ancient, one of the first demons after Lilith and Cain. She was there when everything literally went to Hell.

“Oh yes. I did. Certainly wasn’t one of my most glorious moments,” what’s strange is how easily Abaddon admits that. She notices his look and just smiles showing she has nothing to be ashamed about.

He’s an archangel after all. Dean has little idea what it actually means. He never met an angel and before all this could swear they didn’t exist at all. He and Abaddon never said his name out loud, as if it was an unspoken rule. Why? It’s a very common name. Dean knows not one demon named Michael, and yet he hesitates to name the archangel.

Dean stays for a while after Abaddon leaves to do her Abaddon things. Staring at high walls he tries to imagine the being inside. And also the one that managed to cage such being. Imagining angels? Easier said than done. Dean doubts that actual angels look like strippers in white lingerie with little fluffy wings on their backs (not that he would mind). He isn’t sure what picture he holds inside, but he makes sure it’s not Michael from middle school or Michael from gas station in Ohio whom Dean gutted last week. It takes a lot to say this name, but he makes it.

“Michael,” the mere whisper is followed by loud bang and inhuman roar from another side of the wall. But furious Satan is not what makes Dean shudder. The name instantly burns his throat and tongue and a spark of pure terror blinds him for a moment.

He collects himself with some difficulty and when he has time to think about it he decides that it possibly is a demon thing, this fear is in their blood. Lucifer’s howl sounded angry, but the pain it carried had no measure. The archangel certainly made a number on the devil.

Days go by, but Dean can’t let go. His mind just wanders to it. Curiously, he says out loud names of other archangels. ‘Gabriel’ gets his head spinning a little, name ‘Raphael’ echoes with thunder in his ears, but the name ‘Michael’ makes Dean taste copper in his mouth and feel fire licking his skin. So why does he repeat it when he’s alone? Why does he _want_ to fear? It grows into some sort of obsession, not exactly inconvenient, but worrisome.

“Michael,” he says emptily staring at the First Blade.

“Michael?” he asks with hope as if for revelation.

“Michael,” he hisses venomously and swallows poison back.

“Michael!” he shouts in anger and punches the nearest wall.

Even in shameful moments of weakness he whispers ‘Michael’ into his hands, then brings them to his chest armed with the name like with a punishing sword.

It’s always different, but aftertaste stays the same. Dean grows used to it. He tries to understand. He learns different things about the owner of the name that drives him crazy, but the puzzles don’t seem to fit into a picture. His interest doesn’t surprise other demons much, for the war is coming. Abaddon despite personal experience suggests to pester Alastair. And well…

Alastair nearly kills him when Dean asks him about the archangel. Thanks, Abaddon, it was so nice of her. Alastair is truly scary, even Dean can admit it and whole Hell won’t hold it against him. When Alastair stills at his question, Dean feels hair on his neck standing up. Alastair slowly turns the knife buried in his new victim, so slowly, but she doesn’t scream. Doesn’t dare to.  In matter of second that knife if buried in Dean’s chest and Alastair pushes the blade in and out repeatedly. Dean fights back eventually and when he’s about to reach for Cain’s blade and put down the torturer for good, he finds himself pinned to the wall.

Lilith is the one to break them apart and calm Alastair down, she is the only demon who has power and authority over the torturer. No wonder she’s the boss. But Alastair surprised him. Usually he’s all control, cold anger and sophisticatedly painful strokes, an artist of sorts - not a frenzied animal.

“You’ve just hurt poor Alastair,” Lilith scolds Dean after.

“He stabbed me seven times in row!” Dean yells outrageously, blood spurs from his mouth. And then some.

“You brought up Michael,” Lilith shrugs and she doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable in the least about saying that name, while Dean is shivering all over again. “You see, Alastair and Michael used to be _very-very_ close, when he was still alive.”

A pang of inexplicable jealousy strikes him like lightning. And it’s from one simple phrase that might mean nothing at all.

“Huh?”

“Alastair used to be the archangel’s vessel, silly. The rest is not your business,” she pats Dean’s head, having to raise herself on tiptoes while doing so. “I like Michael,” she adds nonchalantly out of nowhere.

When Dean asks why she only giggles and leaves him with no answer.

Dean stops asking questions. They lead only to more questions. He figured out that a ‘vessel’ is something similar to a meatsuit but with more intimate connection with the host. Dean wouldn’t know for sure, he was lucky to keep his own body and really doesn’t like to leave it. How and why Alastair happened to be one (and how he ended up in Hell after) is not his business.

Once on the topside Dean stares into the sky and wonders what is Heaven like.

“Is that really such a good place to live? All harps and trumpets? Boring, Michael, boring,” he shakes his head.

Now that’s just silly. Dean is _talking_ to an angel he never met and possibly won’t, not just says his name into the darkness of his own soul. It never drowns in this darkness. It follows through like a needle with Dean’s nerve naked and stretched serving as a thread. It pierces and leaves, and Dean has to say it again and again in hope to catch it and unravel its secret.

“Who is like God, huh?” he mutters to himself and spits on the pavement to get rid of this taste words bring along.

 Time to get the job done and he can go on his week-end. It’s too easy for demon of his rank but he’s not going to complain.

And easy it is. Golden goblet is filled with freshly spilled blood, right from the cut throat of good father Matheus, or what his name was. Ever confused how this stuff is working Dean gets Lilith on the other side soon. Her voice comes a bit… bubbly, but Dean only cares to report not to listen.

“The guy didn’t have your tablet or whatever. No. He had it, about fifteen years ago. Nope, too old to remember.”

Dean managed to explain that the thing Lilith hoped to find is on another continent, as some notes in priest’s journal pointed. She’s a smart deviless, will find anything if it’s that important to her.

Dean sighs looking around old church. A fleeting memory of pastor Jim crosses his mind. It’s interesting sensation just to stand here in front of calvary. Not nice, but not repelling as for lower demons. Dean could compare it to standing on the roof of the skyscraper, or driving too fast on a highway in the middle of night. Among the stained-glass windows he finds _his_ archangel and laughs. He committed such a vile crime in the home of Michael’s god.  

Suddenly Dean’s instincts scream. The danger is big and too close. The danger. With mark and the blade he shouldn’t be afraid of anything. He is the danger. But it’s different. Fear is paralyzing.  Candles are burning again.

“Hello, Dean,” the spark follows Dean’s spine and blows in his brain.

The man that appeared out of the tin air and is standing in front of him near the calvary is young, about Dean’s age when he ‘died’. Dean is taken aback by his gentle and sincere if a little sad smile.

“Fate changed its plans for us and yet here we are,” he says in clear voice. But it’s not the voice itself that makes Dean take a step back, it’s something behind this voice, something that’s beyond Dean’s ears and understanding. “I heard you, Dean.”

The guy isn’t scary. So why does Dean’s heart feel like it’s about to start beating again? Honestly, he looks like a musician who has just skipped rock festival: jeans, heavy boots, black leather jacket and long hair. Oh, no. Dean is aware of what is inside, behind blue eyes so clear that they’re nearly transparent.

“You repeat my name over and over, Dean. What are you praying for?” the stranger tilts his head. “There is not much I can give you now when you chose to give yourself to Lucifer.”

Dean finally realizes why it’s so clear here. Why it’s so devastatingly warm. Why he wants to run, but can’t pick a direction: out the church doors or right into…

“Michael,” this time he only mouths it, not able to make a sound.

The man nods and Dean can swear he can see his halo, ashen shadows over it not able to swallow holy light.  

“It’s not fair, Dean,” he looks away and down where is priest’s body lies, blood still oozing from was wound, lazily, for there not much left.

Dean finds his voice behind the shields of uncertainty.

“Fair is not my strong suit,” he doesn’t even understand what’s not fair, but it doesn’t have to do anything with the corps on the floor. His sarcastic behavior taking over self preservation. “So what brings angels down on Earth? Troubles in Paradise?” he sneers.  

Heaven’s warrior ignores the offensive grin and gives a short reply:

“Always,” he kneels over dead body and respectfully closes priest’s eyes. While Dean finds the sight rather pitiful, the glimpse of huge wings that reach the top of the dome he catches is no a mocking matter. And it’s not funny that Dean wants to reach out and touch them, to assure they are real.

“Did you know your father was looking for you? Your brother?”

Dean hasn’t expected this change of topic. To his surprise he has to think what to say. No. Dean didn’t want to know. They left him behind and he did the same. By this time Sam’s got to have his ‘normal life’ with a job, a dog, maybe even a family of his own. Dad… is he even still alive?

“So what?” he challenges, irritated.

“Nothing,” such indifferent ‘nothing’, Michael doesn’t even try to make any point. Everyone else usually do when they bring up his family.

He stands up and his jeans are soaked in blood up to his knees.

“Blood is a good look on you,” Dean compliments before he can stop himself.

“I believe we have it in common,” not much of a compliment coming from the angel. “So will you tell me why you spit my name for dozen times a day? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Michael is exhausted, it’s partly Dean’s fault. He’s also in pain, which is also partly caused by Dean to later’s delight. Causing pain is always nice. Sharing pain? Even nicer. No wonder Alastair loves his job so much.

“Oh, Michael…” he starts and cuts off, wincing as his bones get crushed between tight strings of flesh.  

Michael, Michael, Michael… Dean wants to know why every time he says this name it feels like he’s tearing out a big piece of flesh out of his own body and throws it into the fire, wants to know why he’s so addicted to this name despite the terror it instills. He’s sure Michael knows why.

But Michael won’t answer. Not now.

“Why don’t you kill me if I bother you so much?” Dean is genuinely curious.

“Not so much. You are not that big, Dean,” Michael says calmly. Ouch, that’s a blow to demon’s ego. “But you don’t like to be ignored, do you?”

Damn right. The archangel seems to know him well. And Dean in return can’t say anything about Michael and claim that as truth. He can’t even really _see_ him. Only silhouettes and shadows. Something connects them, Dean doesn’t have to be particularly smart to figure it out. And this something is more than pain. It has to be. There is incinerating need to touch Michael. And desire to rip off his clothes, then his skin and flesh and pry the angel out of this mortal coil. A suicidal idea, Lilith would pat him on the head again.   

Slowly Dean steps closer and closer, it feels like walking right through a wall, and yanks Michael by the collar. He doesn’t even shift. Just stares up, into Dean’s eyes. In this distance knight of Hell can see swords clashing in angel’s eyes and flame rising around. As cheesy as it sounds, he wants to drown in those eyes.

It’s hard to get warm, when your heart stopped beating. But the warmth Michael emanates can possibly warm death itself. Dean’s free hand raises to his face and tentatively brushes silvery blond hair away. Michael is motionless and silent, only battle is raging in his eyes. Dean wants these eyes, wants to draw them out and keep to himself. But when warm breath ghosts at his face, Dean leans closer and does the last thing he’d expect from himself.

“Pray for me,” Dean whispers against Michael’s lips.

Without truly understanding what he’s done Dean marvels at the sight of Michael trembling slightly at such request. Dean could watch forever how the angel writhes inside his vessel. Blue eyes close for a solid minute before opening again, still fierce, still strangely gentle. Read thin streak leaves the corner of Michael’s eye and goes down his cheek. Blood tear. Dean doubts Michael is capable of crying normal tears, but then again what does he know? Dean wants to lick it away, almost desperately. If he did, would it become his sacrament? A promise of resurrection?

Michael mouth twitches barely noticeably, but at this point nothing can escape Dean’s perception. He speaks quietly as Dean has.

“Tell my brother I’ll see him soon,” Michael says. “Goodbye, Dean.”

With that angel disappears right out of demon’s grasp, leaving a lingering trace of grace. Dean hasn’t felt such loss for a long time. Closing his hand around warm air he chuckles bitterly.

“Yeah, see you around, Michael,” Dean finally says.

Before leaving the church Dean takes the goblet, extends it to the stained-glass panel with the image of angel with a sword and takes a sip, as if in its honor. Blood of the priest doesn’t taste differently from any other. But anything’s good to wash the certain name from his mouth.

Free of walls of temple that kept closing in, Dean picks up pace.  

The road ahead is painted by the sunset behind. Dean doesn’t spare the igneous sun a glance despite a nagging feeling that it’s the last time he can see it. False premonition. And even if not… what it is to him if this selfish globe of fire decides to open her veins and bleed out? She’s a big old girl, can do whatever she wants.

The flock of black birds cross the sky. Smirking to himself, Dean sends his sulfurous breath into the wind and moments later birds start screaming and attacking each other. They’ll certainly cause few accidents on the road. Everything has to crash. Everything that flies, everything that strives to get somewhere. There is only one destination.

World is going to Hell. Thank God.  

**Author's Note:**

> Michael was all like 'If I pretend it's not here it'll go away', wasn't he? Too passive perhaps, but if he tolerated Lucifer, he can tolerate Dean for few minutes... I wonder if I should even try writing this pairing again.


End file.
